


soft is the night

by BookGirlFan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Other, Sleepy Crowley (Good Omens), drunken conversations, hair petting, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 21:45:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20396632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookGirlFan/pseuds/BookGirlFan
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley enjoy a quiet night in.





	soft is the night

“But how would they _know_ how to look out for each other, and not just go sstumbling around hurting them by accident?” Crowley drunkenly slurred, his head resting on Aziraphale’s lap as the rest of his body sprawled across the couch. “They got those, whatayacallit, the American thing? The superhero?” 

“Masks?” Aziraphale suggested, equally drunk. “Like the scal– scra– red one?” 

Crowley shook his head dramatically, strands of hair flying into the air only to settle back down against Aziraphale’s soft sweater. “Noooo, th’ other one. With the song.” He hummed a few discordant notes, then shook his head again. This time, one of the strands landed in his mouth. He pulled it out, making a face of comical disgust. 

Aziraphale’s face lit up. “Th’ Phantom! He’s got a mask, an’ a song, an’ a whole opera. Lots of songs in operas.” He nodded his head authoritatively. 

“Phantom’s not a sssuperhero!” Crowley objected. He lifted his head off Aziraphale’s lap just to glare at him. 

“Is so,” Aziraphale obstinately insisted, ignoring Crowley’s glare entirely. “‘S got a mask, an’ a shecret lair, an’, an’ I saw him in a comic book.” He nodded once, as if to emphasise that he had seen him in a book, and who knew books better than the being who had owned a bookshop for more than a century? 

Crowley, unable to argue this, fell back down into Aziraphale’s lap. “But he’s not the hero with the ssssenses, the insssect one.” 

Aziraphale hummed absently, giving up on the conversation in favour of running his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

Crowley shivered, arching up into Aziraphale’s fingers, but kept talking regardless. “Do insects have the sssensses? They must, or why does the hero have them? He needs to know how to sssave people, or he’ss not a good hero. So he must have them. So they must have them.” 

He gestured best he could to illustrate his point while still lying down, but it was just enough to dislodge Aziraphale’s fingers from his hair. Crowley mewled, whining, “Azziraphale...” 

“Hush, precious.” Aziraphale tangled his fingers into Crowley’s hair again, separating out small strands and twining them into small braids which were quickly lost in the masses of red. At this, Crowley, already loose-limbed from the wine, melted further into the couch, his eyes drifting shut. 

“Wonder who insssectsss are trying to ssssave,” Crowley mumbled, eyes still closed. “D’you think they’ve got families ssssomewhere? Little flocksss of hawkmoths? Party of ladybirdssss?” 

“No flies, though,” Aziraphale murmured in return. His fingers still lazily combed through Crowley’s hair, each movement causing the demon to relax more and more. Their wine glasses were sitting on the table, temporarily ignored in favour of greater pleasures. “Don’t like flies.” 

Crowley, too bonelessly relaxed to bother with anything as complex as words, simply hummed his agreement. Aziraphale didn’t mind. He’d entirely lost track of what they were talking about anyway. Something to do with insects? It didn’t matter. Much more interesting and pleasant was the warm weight lying trustingly in his lap. 

A rapid thumping on his front door distracted him from his self-appointed task. He waited, hoping whoever it was would just go away, but instead it just became louder. Finally deciding that this was something he would have to deal with in person, he carefully lifted Crowley’s head off his lap just enough for him to squeeze himself out, smiling slightly at the confirmation that Crowley had fallen asleep. It wasn’t uncommon for their post-Armageddidn’t drinking sessions to end in such a way, but it was still new enough to feel special. 

With one last look behind him, Aziraphale headed for the front door, even more determined to send smartly on their way whoever was rude enough to be knocking on his door at this time of night. 

He opened the front door a crack, just wide enough to whisper loudly, “Whoever you are, we’re not open! We don’t open until morning!” 

He made to close the door, but a foot jammed itself between the door and its frame. “It is morning, mister, and your sign says you open at nine today.” The owner of the foot, a young teenage girl, smiled beseechingly at him, the two other teenagers behind her making similarly winning expressions. 

Aziraphale opened the door a tad wider, taking note of the sun shining weakly between the buildings. There was no denying that it was morning, the stars apparently having disappeared into the sky while he and Crowley were distracted. Inside the shop it was as gloomy as ever, but now that the door was open, it was unmistakable. 

“You must be mistaken. I don’t open until noon.” He pointed to the freshly miracled opening hours sign. The teenagers turned to follow his gesture, and while they were distracted, he promptly shut the door and went back inside, ignoring the surprised shouts and door-hammering going on behind him. 

All the commotion hadn’t woken Crowley, which Aziraphale found he was rather pleased about. Not that he was really sure why – if Crowley could sleep for nearly a century without being disturbed, it was hard to imagine some disgruntled teenagers could make any difference. 

Gently, Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s head again and slipped back into his previous spot. Now that the influence of the alcohol had faded away, it didn’t feel quite right to be touching Crowley’s hair, especially with Crowley no longer awake to object, so instead he miracled a book into his hand, and began to read. Within seconds he was lost in the text, having completely forgotten all of the world around him. 

Without him noticing, his hand had returned to petting Crowley’s hair. In his sleep, the demon smiled. 

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone is wondering, Crowley is referring to Spiderman, while Aziraphale first thought about the Scarlet Pimpernel, then the Phantom of the Opera.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] soft is the night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23138188) by [olive2pod (olive2read)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/olive2read/pseuds/olive2pod)


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